


The Prize We Sought Is Won

by deathfrisbees



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom!Sherlock, First Time, M/M, Military Kink, Oral Sex, hints of sub!sherlock as well, top!John, very mild d/s elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathfrisbees/pseuds/deathfrisbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's in love, or in lust, or both--unfortunately, the object of his affections is not only his completely oblivious flatmate, but said flatmate would probably run screaming into the hills should he find out.</p><p>John's been invited to a wedding--unfortunately, the groom used to serve under him back in Afghanistan, and requests that John wear a uniform he's honestly not sure he fits into. </p><p>Unfortunately for both flatmates, Sherlock's got a military kink the size of Kandahar and John wants to know if he actually can fit into this uniform or if his eyes are deceiving him. It goes from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prize We Sought Is Won

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notfreyja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notfreyja/gifts).



> This was written for my darling girlfriend, aka the Sherlock to my John. She enthusiastically let me throw ideas at her during the writing process and I am forever grateful because I would have never finished without that encouragement. She says she'll be fixing this up grammar-wise when she has a chance, but for now this is un-beta'd.
> 
> To those of you who read my other fic(s), I'm sorry I haven't updated. I lost the original draft and then went to college, so... It'll come eventually. In the mean time, enjoy the porn.

It wasn't a huge deal, Sherlock thought. In fact, it wouldn't have been any sort of deal at all, had John not become involved. "It" was the wedding of one Mark Warren, who had been one of John's best friends in Afghanistan. The pair, according to John's absent murmuring over the invitation, had met during boot camp during a roll call in which they happened to be standing next to each other. The invitation had been tacked to their fridge with a magnet for months. At the time of tacking, Sherlock hadn't cared one way or another.

However, with the wedding drawing near, Sherlock had to face the uncomfortable reality that his flatmate, doctor, conductor of light, and the unknowing object of Sherlock's affections, would be leaving for forty-eight to seventy-two hours. That was inexcusable. What was he supposed to do without John for seventy-two hours? Experiments were less fun without the doctor commenting on his brilliance (or more likely, yelling at him to stop destroying the kitchen). The only thing for it was to force John to stay home or somehow coerce John into taking him along to the wedding as a plus-one. 

In the midst of this, John was speaking warmly of the groom, ostensibly to Sherlock, who was paying no attention. "It was coincidence, but he's one of the best friends I made out there." He laughed, flipping the invitation over. To Sherlock’s momentary delight, he paused in his trek towards his bedroom to pack. _Perhaps he’s changing his mind!_

"Sherlock, did you--?"

 _Did I what, John? Want to come with?_ The detective bit his lip out of the doctor’s line of sight, then abruptly steeled his features into his usual mask as he strode over to John.

The question died off as John continued reading. Sherlock rolled his eyes, continuing his trek to lean uncomfortably into his flatmate's personal space.

"Did I what, John? Don't trail off like that, it's tedious trying to figure out whether you've got something important to say or not," he commanded imperiously. John snorted, elbowing his midsection lightly in an attempt to regain some space. Aside from giving a light grunt, Sherlock didn't move. 

"I was going to ask you if you'd written something down on the back of the invite, but it's actually a private note from Mark," John explained. Sherlock snorted.

"If it truly was private, he'd have phoned you instead of writing it somewhere your 'mad flatmate' might get ahold of it," he commented. The shorter man huffed, handing the invitation off to Sherlock. 

"Fine, not so much _private_ as handwritten or 'special,'" John shot back, with a slight sneer on the final word.

"Dull," Sherlock replied, but took the note anyways, scanning it and offering it back to John before the meaning sunk in. The doctor's fingertips had just barely skimmed the expensive card stock before Sherlock yanked it back, studying it with renewed interest. 

"John. Oh, John, you _have_ to take me with you," he breathed, enthralled by the mental pictures his mind was creating. "Oh John, _please."_

John snatched the invitation back, quickly stepping out of the detective's space. "Um, actually, I don't think I have to do anything. What's so important about the note? Could you tell that his fiancée was cheating on him or something by the handwriting?"

Sherlock opened his mouth. Then he took a moment to think about what he was about to say, and promptly turned in the other direction and marched back to the couch, burying his face in the cushions. "Never mind!" he called belatedly, voice muffled by the cushions.

There was a moment that the detective could tell John was weighing the urge to question him, then he sighed, and Sherlock could hear his footsteps ascending the stairs.

Crisis averted. 

Because really, how on Earth could he justify the fact that the only reason he wanted to go to said wedding was to see Mark Warren, Bill Murray, the rest of the groomsmen, but most importantly, _John_ \-- all wearing their uniforms? To ignore the fact that John would have to bring him as a plus-one, That would force John to delve deeper into Sherlock's psyche, and he was absolutely certain that John--perfect, brilliant, wonderful John Watson-- would not like what he saw.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, it looked as if John would be finding out no matter what. 

\---------------------

The invitation read:

_Captain-- All of my groomsmen, you'll know Bill M., Tom R., Seamus M., (he's bringing that pretty sister of his, so you know), and Connor J., are going to be in uniform, since we're all still serving. But you're still our Captain, and we wanted you to be in uniform too. If you still fit and it's not too much trouble, could you wear the damn thing? If the rest of us have to be uncomfortable, you do too.  
-Mark_

A phone number was scrawled across the bottom of the invitation, and when John was safely ensconced in his room, he called it immediately. On the fifth ring, he was greeted by Mark's breathless voice saying, "Oh thank god, whoever you are. Christine's having a meltdown over the bridesmaid dresses and I had to be present."

"What happened to the bravery of the soldier, Warren?" John laughed. There was a pause before Mark exclaimed wordlessly over the line.

"Captain! Good to hear from you, Watson! You got a new phone, then?" Mark sounded cheerful and happy, if somewhat stressed, and John smiled to himself. 

"It was Harry's old one; she gave it to me when I got back. Sorry, I never saw the back of my invitation until now and I was just calling to confirm--"

"You can't wear it, then?" Disappointment weighed heavily in Mark's voice, and John could already envision the pout the younger man was wearing.

"No! I mean, maybe. I just wanted to know that you still wanted me to wear it-- I haven't tried it on yet, actually."

"Oh! Well, that's quite alright then," Mark continued, "If it fits, wear it! If not, I guess you'll have to wear a suit." He laughed, as if at a private joke, then carried on. "Is that mad flatmate of yours tagging along?"

None of his mates would ever refer to Sherlock as anything else than "that mad flatmate," which was somewhat entertaining but actually rather annoying after a certain point. Sherlock had picked up on it the second he walked into a Fifth Northumberland Pub Night, where he had received an enthusiastic, if not completely plastered, toast from the entire company. 

"Sherlock?" John asked, "I doubt it. He probably thinks weddings are 'pedestrian' or something like that."

Mark hummed thoughtfully, and something in his tone put John on edge. "You're staying the night at the Gladstone, right? Because your hotel room only has one bed, and if he was coming, I'd have to ask..."

He trailed off and John huffed, denial coming easily to his lips. "We're not like that, Mark." Though it would be rather lovely if we _were,_ remained unsaid.

Mark seemed unconvinced. "The way you write about him in that blog of yours begs to differ. Listen, I have a few extra spaces on the seating chart; two of Chris' cousins flaked out with both their plus-ones at the last minute. So if you wanted to bring him... It's fine, you know? Really fine."

"I know," John sighed. "Trust me, I know."

There was a screech in the background, and a woman's voice could be heard yelling things along the lines of, "Mark! Mark, come here," and, "I need you, Mark!" 

John smiled against his will. "Is that your cue to go?"

"Yeah, I'll talk to you later, mate. See you in a week, and try on your dress blues!" The groom-to-be hung up sounding just as stressed as when he started the call, and John tossed his phone on the bed. _No time like the present, I suppose,_ he thought, getting on his knees by the closet and shifting through his boxes until he found the correct one. 

_Afghanistan and RAMC,_ read the label. He opened the box hesitantly, noting the photo albums on top, a spare gun-cleaning kit that he used back at base that he forgot he had, and the hint of fabric underneath it all. Carefully, he pulled out all of the clutter on top, unfolding the black jacket with its red collar, watching distractedly as something small and silver fell out of the folds of material. _My tags,_ he realized with a soft smile, setting the jacket on his lap for a second. He allowed himself a moment to run his finger over the name and number printed on the metal before slipping them over his head. The red vest sat unassumingly in its box, its gold buttons gleaming invitingly. John sighed softly, running a hand down the cool wool. He picked up all the pieces, including a rather wrinkled white shirt that he would wear underneath before he set them on the bed. _Might as well,_ he thought, beginning to strip down. 

A few minutes later, John stood before his mirror, critically observing the figure he cut in his uniform. On the bright side, it looked as if running after Sherlock and being forced to skip a few meals due to aforementioned running had done wonders for his figure. If not wonders, it had at least allowed him to continue fitting into the uniform. Unfortunately, he was acutely aware of how much older he was since the last time he had worn the uniform, and he swallowed uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck.

The man in the mirror did the same, looking almost painfully awkward, and John straightened up. It wasn’t such a bad look, but he certainly wasn’t as dashing as he was while he still served. Feeling oddly hot, he unbuttoned the top of his shirt, allowing the warm metal of his dog tags to be exposed. The picture he made wasn’t much better than the buttoned-up John Watson, but despite his wrinkled shirt and untied bowtie dangling at his neck, he felt the inexplicable urge to show off a bit.

With this in mind, he slipped on his dress shoes and hesitantly called down the stairs, “Sherlock? If you’re not busy, could you do me a favor and come up here for a second?”

\---------------------

Sherlock bit his lip, staring at the ceiling from his position on the couch. Judging by the muffled thumps that had come from upstairs and the position of John’s footfalls, he had tried the uniform on. Perhaps he wanted an opinion? He mentally snorted, standing up. There was no way that John “Not Gay” Watson wanted the opinion of his decidedly male flatmate like a teenage girl asking her friends about a dress for a school formal. 

With that thought in mind, Sherlock headed up the stairs and pushed open the door to John’s room.

\---------------------

He was wrong.

He was so utterly wrong.

He was so utterly wrong it wasn’t even funny.

John H. Watson stood in front of him, looking calm, capable, and every inch the soldier—or rather, the handsome, almost attainable soldier getting ready for the day, or perhaps getting ready for the night. Sherlock wasn’t sure if John was going to button his shirt up or continue exposing more of his chest for Sherlock’s greedy gaze. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine this was a normal sight; that John dressed and undressed for him on a daily basis. Or, more accurately, that Sherlock had the privilege of watching John get dressed instead of accidentally-on-purpose barging in on his half-naked flatmate every so often. 

But this? This was another John—a John who was completely in control of everything he set eyes on. Including his dazed, drunk in love, and high on lust flatmate.

“John,” he managed to choke out, swaying on his feet before dropping to his knees in the doorway. Had he not been completely overwhelmed by the object of his fantasies coming to life where he stood, he might have thought that the colloquial term for this action would be called “blue-screening.”

John, whose eyes were wide at Sherlock’s blatant eye-fucking, actually looked alarmed when Sherlock fell.

“Are you alright, Sherlock?” he queried worriedly.

Sherlock whined, reaching a hand out unconsciously. His pupils were almost black with lust and he stared up at him, wide-eyed and almost drooling, as John bent over him. The tags jingled with his movement and Sherlock sighed, licking his lips.

“Sherlock? Oh my god, you’ve been experimenting, haven’t you?” John sighed, and straightened up. Some part of Sherlock’s brain that hadn’t gone offline handily pointed out that this position left Sherlock’s face at the level of John’s groin. When John stepped close to him in order to see if how to best get around him in order to find said experiment, and Sherlock saw an opportunity and lunged for it with both hands. As John tried to step away, Sherlock pressed his face into the crotch of his pants, turned his head, and breathed. 

John froze, watching his flatmate’s dark curls bob as he nosed at the fabric. His eyes were closed, and John stared, stunned, as one of Sherlock’s long-fingered hands drifted unconsciously to his crotch. 

“Sherlock?” John whispered, and the man whimpered in response, looking up at him with those same eyes, still completely lost to his lust. 

Slowly, almost excruciatingly slowly, John reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock sighed happily and leaned into the touch, and breathed something that made John’s head spin.

“Oh, _Captain,_ ” Sherlock sighed, nearly purring as John tentatively ran his hand through his hair. 

John paused for a good minute, trying to absorb the information that had been presented to him. 

• Sherlock had said he was married to his work.  
• Sherlock had also been giving John sideways glances that John would have termed “longing looks” had they come from anyone else.  
• Sherlock had literally dropped to his knees upon seeing John in uniform, and wow, maybe John looked better in the old thing than he thought.  
• Because now, Sherlock was kneeling at his feet with an erection and looked for all the world like the only thing on his mind was giving John a blow job. 

Mustering his courage, John took a deep breath, and then in his best commanding-officer voice, spoke. 

“Sherlock Holmes, just what do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock let out another whimper, then bit his lip, pressing hard on his own crotch with his hand. John tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair.

“That’s an order, _private.”_

Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a cry, then finally managed to stutter out a sentence that almost made John’s brain short out:

“Oh God, Captain Watson, please let me touch you, oh sir, _please.”_

John swallowed hard. He took several deep breaths to calm himself enough to reply, then very softly gathered up his words enough to ask the man kneeling at his feet, “And where would you like to touch me, private?”

Sherlock looked up at him like Christmas had come early. _Sherlock’s_ version of a Christmas, even, which usually contained murders and serial killers. He licked his lips, and quietly replied, as though he couldn’t believe his good fortune, “Wherever you’ll let me, sir.”

John let out a shaky breath. “Wherever I’ll let you, Sherlock?”

The detective bit his lip, the lust receding slightly from his general posture as he looked up at John expectantly. “Yes, sir.” 

“What about kisses, hm?” John let the barest hint of a smirk show on his face, “Would you kiss me if I asked you to? If I _ordered_ you?” At his feet, Sherlock shivered, nodding. Though his grip had gone loose in Sherlock’s hair, John’s fingers were still twined in the dark curls, and he tightened his grip once more. “What was that? I didn’t hear you, _Holmes.”_

“Yes, sir! I’d do whatever you told me to, sir,” he nearly pleaded, eyes dark and lustful once more. 

_Now or never, Watson._ John took a deep breath and asked the question that would determine the rest of the encounter: “And if I ordered you to suck my cock, would you?”

Sherlock’s breath caught, and John winced at the speed of which the detective’s face was once again pressed against his crotch. He could feel Sherlock’s hot breath through his trousers and nearly groaned himself when the detective, not moving from his position, moaned out, “Oh Captain, I wish you _would!”_

John closed his eyes, barely managing to stroke his hand through Sherlock’s hair. The man was nuzzling at the bulge in John’s dress trousers like a contented house cat, occasionally letting out a small hum or whimper. “Okay,” John whispered, “Okay. Is this what you want, Sherlock?”

The man tossed him what might have been a baleful glare had he not been flushed and panting at John’s feet. “Sir, haven’t I been clear enough?”

Realizing that this was quickly getting into the territory of looking a gift horse in the mouth, John pushed Sherlock’s head away from his groin, ignoring Sherlock’s whine of discontent, and unzipped his trousers. Sherlock strained against his hand, reaching up the hand that wasn't lazily palming himself through his trousers to grab at the backs of John’s legs.

“Patience,” he tutted, “You’ll get to suck me off soon enough, Holmes.” Sherlock shuddered, but stilled obligingly, staring greedily as John’s grey pants were revealed and then licked his lips once he pulled those down, revealing his completely hard cock. 

“Captain…” he murmured almost unconsciously.

John took another deep breath, then slowly brought his other hand up to rest in Sherlock’s curls. “Gorgeous. So lovely, Sherlock.” 

The man whined at his feet, panting heavily. “Mm, oh Captain, please tell me what you want me to do. Tell me how you want me, sir, oh _please—“_

That was all it took. John guided Sherlock’s head back to his erection, gently pushing his face up against the blood-hot organ. “Come on, then. Show me what you can do, private.”

Making a contented, happy noise, Sherlock leaned in and licked a stripe from base to tip, then drew his tongue back down, giving him quick, kittenish licks to his balls before continuing to lavish affection on his length. John shuddered and tightened his hands in Sherlock’s curls, something that made the younger man moan.

“Look at you. Practically gagging for it, aren’t you?” he murmured.

Sherlock gasped an assent, straining upwards to catch the tip of John’s cock in his mouth and swirled his tongue around the head. John cursed, something that only seemed to make Sherlock suck harder. Daringly, John pushed his hips forwards a little further into Sherlock’s mouth, careful not to choke him, and nearly whimpered himself as Sherlock moaned desperately around him.

“Good God, you _like_ that. You like how it tastes, don’t you? Can’t get enough of it?” Sherlock was nodding frantically, sucking harder and trying to get more of John’s length into his mouth. One of the detective’s hands had moved up to John’s arse, desperately trying to push more inches between his lips. John tipped his head back, closing his eyes briefly and trying to regain some modicum of control; a very difficult task given Sherlock’s enthusiasm for the job.

When he opened his eyes and looked down, Sherlock was looking up at him, still whining and moaning around his cock. Looking away from those tempting red lips, John could see Sherlock’s other hand frantically working in his lap. 

“Stop,” he commanded without even thinking. 

Sherlock made an absolutely desperate whine but froze, starting to pull off with a great deal of tongue work as he went. John shook his head, keeping his hand firmly anchored in the dark curls. “I’m—“ He gulped, trying to regain the Captain Watson mindset in the face of the pleasure the other man was giving him. “Apologies, I was not clear in my orders.”

Sherlock groaned around him, unconsciously suckling at his length as John carded his hand through his hair. “What I meant was not for you to stop your task here,” this was punctuated by a sharp tug to Sherlock’s hair, “but to stop touching yourself. I’ll decide how and when you get to come today.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, the slim ring of colour barely visible around his pupils. He slid off just enough to murmur, “Oh yes, Captain Watson, sir,” before lavishing the head of John’s cock with kisses and tonguing fiercely at the slit. 

A rather undignified whimper echoed around the room, and John wasn’t sure which of them made it at first, until a muffled moan echoed it. He watched, shuddering in pleasure and rocking his hips slightly into Sherlock’s mouth as the man began to bob his head up and down with renewed vigor. Words were difficult, but John finally managed to get out something along the lines of, “God, Holmes, you’re going to make me come in that pretty little mouth of yours,” before Sherlock was clutching his hips to his face with both hands, looking up at John with pleading eyes.

That was it for Captain John H. Watson, who clutched at his flatmate’s hair and promptly came in the other man’s mouth, eyes tightly closed in his pleasure and therefore unable to watch as Sherlock swallowed everything as though it was water and he was dying of dehydration.

He licked John clean as he pulled off, making the captain shiver as Sherlock cleaned him off with gentle strokes of his tongue, before making sure to lick his fingers as well. He sat back on his knees, licking his lips before folding his hands in his lap (pointedly away from his erection, John noticed) and quietly saying, “Awaiting further orders, Captain.”

\---------------------

John looked down at him with an unreadable expression. Even now, red-cheeked, flushed, and cock still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm, he still looked every inch in command. Sherlock wasn’t sure if _he_ wanted to devour _John,_ or if he wanted _John_ to devour _him._ There was a long moment of silence, both men observing the other, before John decisively tucked himself away in his pants and slowly prowled around him in a circle.

“You want to come, don’t you, Private Holmes?” He hummed, reaching down to stroke through Sherlock’s hair tenderly before grabbing his face and roughly turning it up to face him. “Look at yourself, Sherlock. So hard and wanton at my feet, just from having my cock in your mouth. Is that what you want me to do for you?” Sherlock just remained silent and wide-eyed at John’s feet, and the captain had to close his eyes for a moment in stunned realization before adding, “You have permission to speak, private.”

Barely audible, and hoarse from the vigorous blow job he’d just given, Sherlock hesitantly replied, “I’d like that very much, sir. But it’s up to you.”

John took a deep breath, looking away, and for a few terrible seconds Sherlock wondered if he’d gone too far. But John, his wonderful John smiled, once again reaching down to play with Sherlock’s hair. “Strip, Holmes, and get on the bed.”

Sherlock was up and stripping off his clothes in a heartbeat, nearly tripping over his shoes as he toed them off. He practically flung himself onto the bed, watching John expectantly. After a moment of just staring at him, John smiled and joined him on the bed, lightly stroking a hand down his chest. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re gorgeous, Sherlock Holmes?” he asked warmly, circling a tan nipple with one hand. 

The man in question hummed low in his throat, quicksilver eyes going to half-mast. “Yes, sir, but rarely in this context.”

John leaned down and licked at the nipple he’d been toying with, causing Sherlock to give a full-body shudder. “You are, Sherlock.” From the curls John already adored playing with down to the flushed erection he was desperately trying not to grind against John’s hip, the man was a sight John wished he could sear onto his retinas for years to come. 

So absorbed in his task of nuzzling and kissing at the creamy skin revealed to him that John barely noticed the detective’s breathy reply of, “Thank you, sir.”

John smiled slowly; an almost feral grin that made Sherlock shiver and cant his hips into the air. “I think you deserve a reward for being so good for me today and following orders, hm?”

 _“Please,_ sir! I’m so close already, Captain—“ Sherlock broke off with a groan as John reached down and wrapped his hand around the other man’s length. “Oh, yes, that’s it,” he murmured rapturously as John slid his hand up and down, taking care to brush his thumb over the slit as he did so.

“Will this do, private?” John teased, continuing the slow pace with his hand, smearing the sticky liquid dripping from the crown down his length. The man whimpered, his hips bucking up into John’s touch.

“Y-yes, John, Captain, please keep going, please,” Sherlock was gasping and muttering, nearly arching off the bed as John quickened the pace of his hand, “Just a little more, I—“

John leaned down to suckle at one of Sherlock’s nipples and it was all over for the detective, whose hips stuttered wildly before he let out a cry of, _“JOHN!”_ so loud that Mrs. Hudson could probably hear it three floors down in 221A. 

John stroked him through the aftershocks, cooing and kissing his neck as Sherlock came all over himself, missing John’s uniform by some sort of miracle. He lay on the bed panting as John got up, grabbing a few tissues to clean off his hand. The doctor leaned down and kissed his forehead, smiling softly. “I’m going down to get a flannel and clean you up, alright?”

Sherlock only nodded in response, brain slowly coming back on line. By the time John returned to the bedroom, he was sitting up and watched him walk through the door with a kind of mute horror plastered across his face. “Hey,” John murmured, stroking through the mess on his chest and stomach gently, “What’s wrong?”

The detective gulped, watching John clean him up. “I… I didn’t mean to demean your service in any way, John,” he began, “You were never supposed to know about my… kink, as it is. I’m sorry if I forced you into doing something you didn’t want any part of—“

John cut him off by laughing, setting the cloth aside to tilt his chin up. “Did you want to shag me before this, or is it just the uniform that does it for you?”

He gulped. “Both? I wanted to before this, John, but seeing you today…” Shamefaced, Sherlock looked away, “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John commanded, and the second Sherlock turned back to him, he caught his lips in a kiss. Sherlock melted into it and John wrapped his arms around his bare back, delving into his mouth and lightly brushing their tongues together before pulling back. “If you want this, you should know that I want this too. So if you’re willing, I think we could work something out, yeah?”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. “You want me?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

 _“John,”_ he sighed, and sought his mouth out for another kiss, longer this time, “Oh John, yes please.”

John hummed happily, kissing him briefly before pulling back with a cheeky grin. “Isn’t that Captain to you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Walt Whitman's poem "O Captain! My Captain!" Apologies if I screwed up RAMC stuff. Honestly, I googled enough to make sure I got the uniform correct, and did less research on whether John would have actually been allowed to keep/wear his dress blues. (I have a feeling he wouldn't have, but that would have completely screwed the premise of this fic, so...) 
> 
> More apologies for the lack of proper formatting. I clearly have to re-learn AO3.


End file.
